


Philosopher

by LadyEm



Series: The Spaces Between [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, F/M, First Time, Fluff, mid season 8 episode 4, not flattering to Cersei, past twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 06:37:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18959887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyEm/pseuds/LadyEm
Summary: Jaime is a terribly soppy philosopher in the small hours of morning, and gets completely carried away with overthinking everything. My response to Nikolaj's "Oh No" comments. Probably not really explicit at all (sorry).





	Philosopher

**Author's Note:**

> This is Jaime's companion piece to Love Letters.

He woke in the depths of the night, limbs tangled with hers, the smell of sex lingering faintly in the air beneath the sleeping furs. Careful not to wake her, he slid first his legs and then his body out from beneath the furs – Gods, it was cold in this place – grabbing a blanket from the floor to wrap himself in. He slipped behind the dressing screen to piss – she’d seen him do it before of course but if she woke now, so soon afterwards, he didn’t want her first (next) sight of his cock to be as he drained away the previous evening’s wine – then threw some more logs on the fire before turning to return to bed.

She’d moved in her sleep, chasing the warmth of where he had lain, and – with a rash on her neck and chest where his whiskers had scratched her skin, her hair mussed and was that the tiniest spot of drool where her head met the pillow – he honestly thought he had never seen a more beautiful sight.

He slipped around to the other side of the bed, bringing the blanket with him, sliding in behind her. He’d always been good at getting to sleep – it was getting _back_ to sleep that challenged him. The cares of the world seemed so much more pressing in the dark, even when you had just won a battle against the forces of Winter – _two_ battles, if you included putting logs on the fire which, he was fairly certain, was definitely includable. And although he was only a philosopher at night, he knew that it was definitely easier to worry about the battle, and about the cold, than about what had just happened with Brienne.

And just like that, the cares of the world receded and the cares of what had happened with Brienne came roaring in, cold and frankly a little terrifying, rather like the Night King’s ice dragon. Since his arrival in Winterfell, they had built something – he didn’t quite know what – and he was, frankly, terrified that they might have destroyed it. Not that their coming together last night was impulsive – he felt, rather, that it had been inevitable – but he wasn’t quite sure what to _do_ next. In retrospect, his appearance in her room had hardly been a smooth and prolific seduction; he’d arrived and started undressing, then been sidetracked by his jealousy, and he still wasn’t entirely sure whether he had seduced her or whether she had seduced him – not that he was complaining.

She’d been a virgin – Tyrion’s careless question had established that even before she confirmed it – and he was _almost_ a virgin, sort of. He’d never slept with a knight before. In fact, he’d never slept with anyone except his sister before, and he wasn’t sure – did sisterfucking count as losing your virginity or was it some strange exception. He rather felt that it ought not to count – but then, he was probably the Westerosi expert on sisterfucking and had a sneaking suspicion he was deluding himself, especially when said sister was currently pregnant to him for the fourth time. Which was definitely a complication, and he had a suspicion that Brienne was simultaneously both going to care about that quite a lot and also that she might just be the only person who might be able to move on from it. But the point – the point of his rambling thoughts on virginity – was not so much on his understanding of the nuts and bolts of what went where – three and a bit children and all the other assorted interludes with Cersei had made him pretty much an expert on which orifices could accommodate which body parts – but the what came afterwards. Where did they go from here – because as much as he would be happy to follow her around all day, he’d seen her reaction to the ginger Wildling doing just that. She veered wildly between bemused and horrified, and neither was precisely flattering. And while he rather thought that she preferred him to Tormund, he wasn’t ready to risk anything about this _thing_ that they had found together by following her around like a lost sheep.

She sighed and stirred in her sleep and he literally felt a wave of tenderness so extreme that he was puzzled when she didn’t wake as it broke over her. He wanted to hold her, to wrap her in his arms and – Gods, this was more than just sex and so very much more than sistersex – he never wanted to leave her. He wondered sleepily whether they could be wed tomorrow – whether she might ever want to wed him – what did you need to _do_ to be wed and what did wedded people actually do? And what would she be called if she did wed him – Lady Ser Brienne of Tarth Lannister? Lannister-Tarth? Ser Brienne Lannister Lady of Tarth? Would she even want to go back to Tarth or would she want to live in the Gods-forsaken North for the rest of their lives – not that Winterfell was as bad as he had thought, especially now with his warm naked woman in his bed – her bed – and why was he thinking about weddings when they hadn’t even _woken up together_ yet? Except of course they had, so often, when they had travelled together, when he was her prisoner – and was it _wrong_ to think that perhaps that was a game they might play together some day? Because he was having some serious fantasies about Ser Lady Brienne tying him up right now. 

He tugged the sleeping furs a little higher, almost burying his face in them. He wondered whether he should shave his beard – he’d seen the whisker rash he’d left on Brienne’s chest and only hoped her thighs had escaped the worst of it. Maybe he would ask her tomorrow. He yawned, snuggling closer to her warm back. Ser Jaime the Lovesick of Lannister and Tarth. Definitely not the worst name he’d ever been known by.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this.


End file.
